#✦ upshur. ╱ bloody prophet mine: is it worse you are awake or you are alive?

[cataschism]

Beth’s mouth tastes sour and her face hurts with the burning that only tears can bring, her face hot and her eyes feeling like a worn stuffy’s button eyes about to fall off straight from her head. Her palm is bleeding from where she incised a keyhole, and it’s all over the cable car keys. She slowly takes it out of her palm and holds it with her other freezing, but not bloody, palm.

She is slowly returning to personhood, post wakeup call.

The steps she’s taking feel less like her own and more like the spirit of her older brother telling her: you gotta walk. Why do protagonists always come back to the haunted house? To the killer house? To the ghosts, the monsters, the slashers—’cuz they have to walk. That’s what her older brother used to say. Someone’s gotta take that first step, Beth. 

❛ Yeah, thanks, I… yeah, I don’t usually drive. Josh usually did. ❜ Or a driver. Miles might be happy to hear about Beth’s inheritance. Now that she’s eighteen, she’ll take it out of the bank and put it in her own savings. Just in case Bob thinks she suddenly had a case of wanting to commit arson on her own family home. You never know what producers may think the second they lose money. 

Maybe she’s being too harsh. Her own siblings are dead. 

You got your passport on you?

She inspects the cable keys and sees that Josh put his own car key in the mix. A brand new thing, just like everything else he owned, even if he didn’t particularly like driving himself and preferred spending Bob’s money so he could fully focus on conversation.

❛ It’s in Josh’s car. We’ll make a pitstop. It’s in the console, with Hannah’s. Just in case we had to jet. ❜ She’s talking out of her ass—not in the fact that she doesn’t know where her passport is, but just the words she’s saying feel like nothing but canned air. They’re all puff, no substance. She barely feels herself talking them.

She inserts the keys into the cable car. Stalls before she makes it in, just stares inside. Everything is so cold. 

She takes one last look at the mines, past Miles’s shoulder. It calls to her like a parasite. She turns back, steps into the car.

❛ I have friends in California. That’s where I was gonna go to school, but then I took… a gap year. Let’s call it that. I wouldn’t mind D.C. D.C has good undergraduate programs, doesn’t it? Sure, it does. Anything better than here. ❜

She leans back on a freezing bench and wall. ❛ Expect turbulence. This shit is old. ❜

❝ good. you made the right choice. ❞

even if you don't know it yet. that boy is fucking dead. no one made it out of there. no one but us. heh, guess that's kinda been my thing recently.

considering both he and waylon had made it out of mount massive primarily intact? sure, miles had a concussion, cuts, bruises, and an even bigger ego complex than when he busted into the place, but hey, i kept my fucking fingers, trager. fuck you. and fuck that pig, too. fuck all of those pricks. i'm glad i fucked that engine up, and i'm ... yeah. it's all good. the engine is gone. that's all it takes to kill the swarm, right?

be real, miles. you died that day, remember?

y̴̨̛̯ŏ̵̢͜u̵̠͙̒̂'̶̲̼̇͠r̵̜͆͝e̴͖͝ ̸̱̫̃t̸̪̏̔ẖ̵̈ẻ̵̩͐ ̵͉͐͐ŝ̷͔̻̍w̸̝̔͜a̷̬̤͒r̴̪̈́̏m̵̤͂,̶̣͒́ ̵̱́̂m̸̨̱̕ǐ̴̙ļ̶͇̍̌ë̴̤́͘s̶̙͓̿͑ ̷̫̥̿û̴̧̮͝p̶͚̚ṡ̸̛̳͉h̶̡̰̏u̶̧͐̀r̴̩̜̚ ̴̨̂m̶̮͆i̴͈̚͜l̷̠̟̈́e̴̡̚͠ş̷̺̋ ̶͔̗̍u̷̱͂̓p̴̠͗s̸̼̣͋h̶̙̪̏ò̸̝̩͒r̸͕͛͊e̵̡̛͝ẉ̵͊i̶̻̲͒t̷͚̃̽h̸̨̭̀o̴̙̼͝u̷̥̖̎̃ţ̷͠ ̶̨̉a̸̲̚ ̵̨̂̾p̶̜̿̆a̵͖̍͒d̵̯͑̀d̶͔̫̾́l̵̲̗͝e̷̙̰̕ ̵͖͂̒t̶̠̞̑̋ḥ̷̲͌e̴̞͑ ̶͍͐s̸͍̎̚w̷̳͝á̸̼͙͝r̴̫̭͝m̶͕̪͐ ̸̝̒͐ĭ̸̹ ̸̬̻̈́̿ă̶̺̜m̷̛͉ ̸̛̤̔t̵̢̞̔̓h̸̩̘̽̚ȩ̴̜͘ ̷̧̻̾s̵̼͊͝w̴̢̛̪͠a̴̫͊m̵̮͈͌̄

if miles had to guess, she's having a panic attack, or at least the crashing wave of guilt, remorse, and regret ... loss. she has lost, yes, and miles has only gained through that loss. not intentionally, of course, and it's a damn good thing they found each other, but the fact remains: miles only suffers the wounds he chooses to have inflicted by coming up here himself. beth is tied to this place. she didn't have a choice. she never did. in the end, the choices she made were predetermined for her from the start, as if controlled by a secret hand from the dark, adding predetermined influence to an otherwise autonomous being.

he can't explain it, but he understands it.

i always thought i manifested my own destiny ... so what the hell have we manifested here, huh? don't know if i believe in that anymore, either.

he stops rubbing her back, instead moving to try and support her more from the side. he's not directly handling her, more the illusion of providing assistance, and he's there if she falls. he will catch her. in tandem, they're making progress towards the cable car, their only means of escape off this mountain unless they wanna freeze to death on a hike down. we'd never make it.

❝ i'm driving. my rig, but even if it wasn't, you're in no shape. i know the way out, don't worry. i have no plans to turn around and come back. shit's gonna get complicated at the border, though. you got your passport on you? ❞

his is in his dashboard compartment. if not, miles has a workaround.

a friend of a friend owes me a favor up here, so, in the meantime, let's hope josh didn't fuck up our only means to escape this fucking place. goddamn. some shit runs too deep. putting these puzzle pieces together is gonna be difficult without the shitload of evidence we just left behind in those mines and set on fire in that house. fuck this. let's just get out of here. the footage speaks for itself.

he's encouraging her to continue, to leave behind her spilled guts and revel in the bit of glory she has in being here to see the culmination of all the events. boom. butterfly effect.

[cataschism]

Michel cleans up his mess in half the time he’s designated for himself. He double - checks then triple - checks that his finger prints aren’t on anything with a UV light he brings. Re - counts his knives, the faucets, his tarps, and the Miles - pig’s ties. Nothing looks out of place. He’s sure his wife will place a call for her husband’s mysterious murder when she gets back from her monthly book &. wine night. 

He can finally burn the pages he’s written in for this family. &. then he’ll be done with them all until he’s given this case to look over. He makes it early, but blends into the crowd until Miles arrives. He’s just fidgety. He does love his journalists. Sits back &. keeps all identifying objects off of his face - no colors, no sunglasses, even keeps his face neutral. 

Michel understands that all murder is disasteful, but there was something about killing or torturing women that just didn’t sit right with him. It felt so cliche. Of - course you went after the isolated young woman &. probably ditched her body in the harbor. But how did no one see? &. Michel’s not even mad he didn’t think of it first, he just wants to know how. 

How did no one see? How did no one realize? It’s not like dumping a girl’s body in the harbor is inconspicuous, after all. There are better methods of disposal. Like pigs. ( oh, michel loves pigs! )

He puts his glasses back on, steps by the door.

[ SMS ] Standing by the door like a conspicuous stalker, Miles. I see you, though. I have the purple, heart-shaped sunglasses on. ☆

[ SMS ] They’re barely even sunglasses, so I can see you just fine.

Now, what could he tell Miles about the murder of this young woman? He bets, if he tries hard enough, he could remember her face. Maybe it’s someone he used to know.

holy shit, this guy is a lot. the connections miles tends to make are ... eclectic at best, eccentric always, and totally freakish at worst. this guy is creeping me out!! still, he deals. miles always deals.

roll with the punches, upshur.

miles is typing ...

[ SMS ] : Yeah. The harbor.

[ SMS ] : See you there. Don't be late.

he's locked the door behind him, keys turning the engine over of his red jeep, and he's got his foot on the gas pedal to slip out of his parallel parking spot. he flips off a driver he's in the middle of cutting off, effectively forcing them almost off the road as he settles in with a little low-effort background music.

arriving, miles parks near the bar, but makes his way towards the harbor's dividing line of land and sea.

she washed up a few days ago. i was trailing her movements before she disappeared. whole thing is fucking weird.

pulling out a cigarette from the worn pack in his pocket, he lights up with a heavy exhale. it's exhausting to do this, but it's worth it. he was a big fan of batman growing up. batman was a lot fucking richer.

funny how things change. he's starting to understand why heroes are for kids.

[ SMS ] : I'm here. Wearing a brown jacket. Don't sneak up on me. I hate that.

[cataschism]

The drumlike pain of her heartbeat is enough to keep her keeled over, if just to get some air back into her lungs as she struggles. She puts herself in an upright recovery position, favoring a side in case she crumples in a pile of her own grief; just Beth-shaped shards of memories of her siblings, now running amok and totally ruined. 

Grief changes you. In her psychology books, that was a huge thing—grief shows up on several body functions, including sleep and motor functioning, and the common things like memory. She wanted to be a researcher for Josh, her stupid, resilient older brother. She wanted to research medication. She wanted to help him. And this grief is neurologically imprinted on her brain, forever altering her, and will be like waves hitting her all throughout her life.

She feels Miles’s hand on her back and tries to breathe through the physical, burning pain of her grief. When she rises, sobs abating, he starts speaking. The bastard.

The mines. It’s always about those mines. Josh and Beth’s hiding place underneath the lodge was the closest they’d ever get ‘cuz Josh was terrified of the mines. He hated places like that. Where your voices echo. Your own shadow creeps behind you. It’s because of his mental health, now, she knows that. But back then, he just told her of monsters.

Monsters who creep, monsters who use your voice and call out to your loved ones. Come here, they say. I’m hurt. Monsters always lie, Beth. That’s what he’d say. But your big brother—your big brother’s got you, Beth. 

❛ Go into… what would Josh want? ❜

Ⓧ TELL YOUR SISTER ABOUT YOUR MENTAL HEALTH. OR Ⓐ HIDE IT.

She knows what he chose.

Ⓧ TELL THE FUCK UP HOW FUCKED UP YOU ARE. OR Ⓐ BE FUCKED UP IN PRIVATE.

It haunts her to this day. Why did he hide it? What about him had to be hidden from him—what she’d even do? Her heart hurts. Through the mud and blood of grief, she tries to rework it. Clinging to the keys in her hand, until the sharp part of the end lodges into her sweat-soaked and blood-soaked palm, until it etches a new door opening through her skin.

Ⓧ protect your baby sister, if it’s the last thing you do—you can fix it on your own, if you just protect her this once. or Ⓐ save yourself.

Beth feels like she’s going to hyperventilate.

Ⓧ This tragedy is about you, Josh.

Breathing deep and forcing herself to imagine what he’d want, what he’d really want as she’s known him, and not at all what she’s making up, but what she knows. Through the darkness and the fog and the snow, what would her resilient older brother want of her now? ❛ Let’s go to your car. I know what he’d want, and it’s not me in those mines.❜

Ⓐ But I really wish it was about me. Ⓐ I miss you.

holy shit. this is going south fast. get it together, miles. bring her back in. she's mourning. that's normal. look, he gets it. but now isn't the time, girl. save it for my jeep. just don't fuck up the interior.

is miles an empathetic man? hey, is this really the time to be asking that question? probably not.

but with her revelation of grief and loss, a new branch has appeared, and now miles is left with a choice.

GO TO THE CABLE CAR OR GO TO THE MINES?

instinct says get the fuck out of here, upshur. you got everything you need. but she doesn't. she's lost everything. ah, fuck.

he tries to see her through it, but there's not much he can do but awkwardly rub her back in a counterclockwise motion. let it out, he seems to say without saying it.

just let it out. this too shall pass.

when she seems ready, he digs into the wound again.

❝ ... your brother. you said that mike guy, he said ... something about the mines, right? like ... ❞ like we're going to find a fucking dead body. miles is sure josh is dead. but how sure? pretty fucking sure. he's just here to haunt her narrative now. as a writer, miles can smell it. ❝ like josh didn't make it out of there, but ... like, did he see him die? can't really ask him now, but ... if he didn't say for sure, your brother might be alive. are you willing to take that risk going back in those mines to look for him? ❞

what he's asking her is simple: are you willing to risk your life to find his body on the off-chance he might be alive?

if josh is alive and we don't go for him, that's pretty fucked up. but if he's dead, we're just wasting our own time, risking our own lives.

so, is this really a decision miles is supposed to make?

❝ you tell me, beth ... cable car? or the mines? ❞

[cataschism]

Jingling the keys and spinning them on her index, it’s one of the only things keeping her calm as the sun begins to crest over the mountains and the nausea begins to crawl up her spine, heating her up and alerting her of her increasingly fast heart rate. The chain is ice cold and the rods are dusted with snow but, somehow, the salt that they throw down the top keeps these from icing over each year. It’s a dreaded Washington chore she couldn’t be more grateful for now.

❛ Good old Bob Washington, esteemed movie producer and director. He probably won’t even call me. ❜

She hops off the last two stairs, an immediate and subconscious imitation of her older brother’s habit. She lands with a plume of snow around her, dusting her coat and getting her leggings wet. She gets a frizzon, nearly dropping her gun, feeling her spine spasm and her body tremble up to her head.

Then the nausea surges. Beth feels a physical constriction of her throat like her body is screaming: don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke. Her heart rate hiccups, and then she’s crying, red-hot tears bursting from her eyes as her throat constricts and her voice stops working, and then she pukes, right there by the stairwell onto the snow. She’s crying as she does it, gagging before each new wave, holding her forehead and her hair and her bangs back. Her back spasms. She gasps for breath.

❛ My sister is dead. ❜ Beth is sobbing, spittle loose from her lips. She has a headache from the sudden warmth. ❛ My sister is dead and gone, and my brother is missing and he’s probably dead. My brother. My br—Joshua—Joshua. Joshua. ❜

She gasps another breath and vomits another bulk of just spit and tears and snot. Down the stairwell leads directly to the cable car. It also leads to the mines. 

❛ Joshua. Hannah. Joshua. ❜ Joshua where every syllable is split and repeated, Jo-sh-u-u-u-a-a. 

Made awake by the smell, and twice as exhausted as she was before with her body empty and her head aching, she reels back upward and sniffles, hard. Her mouth tastes like hell. ❛ What am I even supposed to do? I’m half a person without either of them. Oh, God. ❜

❝ bob, ❞ he echoes, following her.

there's trails all over, and one of them leads right to the cable car. she knows the right ways, and she has the keys. clever girl. the last thing her brother did for her. in his own way, josh is still watching out for his little sister.

get out of here, he would tell her. i want you to live. hey, beth? i'm still in the mines.

❝ your dad, right? yeah, pretty hard to explain this. a real creature feature. ❞

miles snorts between breaths. he's an active guy, but this shit was way too much. his muscles ache, he's been clawed at, and his ears are still ringing. almost lost my damn fingers. fuck this place.

❝ my jeep is parked by that truck and car down at the station. red. can't miss it. we'll take that back to ... wherever you wanna go first, i guess. i live in D.C., but i doubt you wanna follow me there. for now, i'm with you. washington can wait. gotta get somewhere we can get this footage uploaded, though. i don't want to lose this footage, beth. ❞

[cataschism]

Michel is humming to himself, washing his hands until they break from lathered soap &. endless water ( coming from a faucet he does not pay for ! ) and he dries them in a new, still folded towel. He checks his messages while peeling dead skin from his top lip. The friend             /             colleague ?            /             PIG he’d just got done working on was bleeding through his undershirt. He’d have to give him a jacket. Maybe a tie?

[ SMS ] Ah, by the harbor? I imagine you journalists always are. ♡

He looks again at the pig. Michel just shaved his face, but he looks too babyish without his facial hair. It stank &. he never kept it trimmed. It was disgusting. Michel prefers him this way, &. still thinks he’s pathetic. What was his name?

Wasn’t it Miles, too?

Oh, that’s funny. Nothing like his journalist, however.

[ SMS ] Oh, sure. Can I call you “Darling” next? Since we’re getting so informal.

Michel is typing. . .

[ SMS ] Kidding. I know you don’t like that. I wouldn’t. An hour, then ☆

Michel is typing. . . Michel is typing. . .

[ SMS ] I’ll start driving there in 44 minutes, on the dot. It’s about 16 minutes away. Can’t wait, Miles. Michel puts on a respirator, douses the kitchen in bleach, and puts on his favorite latex glove brand. He can reposition his art in 44 minutes, or less.

he rolls his eyes, multitasking between his computer and cell. he's printing a few things off to stuff in a manilla envelope filled with other evidence he's been collecting.

miles is typing ...

[ SMS ] : I didn't ask for a novel. I just asked if you were awake.

[ SMS ] : Meet me downtown in an hour. Where that girl went missing last week. You know where.

[ SMS ] : Before you ask, I'm looking into something.

miles is typing ...

miles is typing ...

[ SMS ] : Also, just Miles is fine btw. Formalities not needed.

formalities is what he's calling it. keep it professional. i don't get involved with people i work with like that. not anymore.

[ SMS ] : An hour. There's a bar nearby. I want to look at the scene again first. Then we'll have a drink. Best to talk in person. Might have something. Remember. An hour. I'm already on my way.

[cataschism]

Beth wants to say she’s pretty horrified by Miles’s lack of reaction, but the gun she’d taken from Mike still rests like lead in her hand, low at her hip. Her face is the most neutral it’s ever been, all emotions foggy and distant from her now. All she smells is ash and as she watches her family’s lodge continue to smolder, all she can do is crane her head towards Miles and blink once, twice, to remind herself she’s alive.

❛ Yeah, I guess. ❜ If everyone deserves the f-bomb right now, it’d be her, but she doesn’t particularly like to curse. And this movie is R-Rated enough, it doesn’t need a ton of swears. The imprint of the monsters’ teeth lingers in her mind, seared in her eyelids. And to this guy—it’s just a Saturday.

She wipes her runny nose with a soot-covered back of her palm and tastes both snot and blood. She lingers in the snow, then pulls on her puffy purple jacket, and takes a step down the mountain. ❛ There’s stairs down this way, like a backdoor. Let’s go, Miles. The sun will properly up, and I don’t want any calls from Bob about why his house is gone. ❜

❝ this place is torched. ash and dust. nothing worth coming back to now. ❞

besides, he got the footage, right? all i had to do was hit record. pretty simple stuff for me. for her? not so much. but they made it out, and that's what matters, right? right?

❝ seems like your friends called in for backup. good for them. or ... was. doesn't matter now. but you and me, @cataschism? time to split, girlfriend. it's fucking cold up here. ❞